very poet for her lover; and by "a poet" I mean not your mere
rhymer. He was downright stolid and stupid under his fine
exterior; the worst type of Briton, without the saving grace
of a Briton's honor. And so she had wearied him, who saw in
her no more than a sweet loveliness that had cloyed him
presently. And when the chance was offered him by Bentinck
and his father, he took it and went his ways, and this sweet
flower that he had plucked from its Normandy garden to adorn
him for a brief summer's day was left to wilt, discarded.

The tale that greeted Everard on his return from Ireland was
that, broken-hearted, she had died - crushed neath her load of
shame. For it was said that there had been no marriage.

The rumor of her death had gone abroad, and it had been
carried to England and my Lord Rotherby by a cousin of hers -
the last living Maligny - who crossed the channel to demand of
that stolid gentleman satisfaction for the dishonor put upon
his house. All the satisfaction the poor fellow got was a
foot or so of steel through the lungs, of which he died; and
there, may it have seemed to Rotherby, the matter ended.

But Everard remained - Everard, who had loved her with a great
and almost sacred love; Everard, who swore black ruin for my
Lord Rotherby - the rumor of which may also have been carried
to his lordship and stimulated his activities in having
Everard hunted down after the Braemar fiasco of 1715.

But before that came to pass Everard had discovered that the
rumor of her death was false - put about, no doubt, out of